Author: phoyle

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.” He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Great Performances by Ricky

Part 1 – Ballet

I am not a connoisseur of ballet. My experiences with ballet being limited to a television performance of The Nutcracker, a portion of Swan Lake, and a glimpse of what it takes to become a ballet dancer in the movie Billy Elliot. You can understand then when I say I basically have no vast collection of ballet memories upon which to evaluate any ballet, let alone enough knowledge to judge one performance as being “great” compared to all the others. Having explained my lack of background, I will do it anyway.

This past week, I did watch a ballet that I had recorded on my DVR off the Rocky Mountain PBS channel, a ballet performed by the Milwaukie Ballet that is titled Peter Pan. Many of you already know that Peter Pan is my favorite childhood story and should not be surprised that I would want to watch it. I desired to watch this ballet not because I love ballet, but because I didn’t think that with such a varied and complicated story background, anyone could adequately stage and perform a ballet to do justice to the story. I wanted to see how the choreographer and composer along with all the other persons involved in the production could actually create a decent performance of a great story.

Put together a great performance they did. I can’t comment on the quality of the dancing or compare the dancers to other ballet performers, but I can say that I loved their skill and the talent displayed in this performance. The choreography, music, costumes, and set design were appropriate. The technical application of flying was skillfully done and Peter’s dance with his “shadow” was creative, unexpected, and very well done. Another technical achievement was Tinker Bell’s costume of multi-colored lights and the occasional transitions from live dancer to traveling balls of light sometimes on the walls and sometimes in Peter’s hand.

Another unexpected treat was the interesting way the audience was involved in the “Do You Believe in Fairies?” scene. Ballets being void of speaking (at least in my experience), the scene had to be silent and yet the audience was able to participate by waving small fiber-optic flashlights at the appropriate time.

All-in-all, I believe this was a great performance.

Part 2 – Summer Sausage

From about 1989 until 1997, I worked for the South Dakota Division of Emergency Management, the state equivalent of the Federal Emergency Management Agency known by its acronym, FEMA. My position was titled the State Hazard Mitigation Officer. South Dakota had several federally declared natural disasters during the time I was serving there. The disasters were mostly flood, drought, and tornado related. By the time I departed, I managed about $50M in disaster mitigation project funds.

After local government jurisdictions submitted their project applications and the “state” selected which ones to recommend to FEMA for approval, FEMA would send a team of two young grant professionals to visit each proposed site and further evaluate the proposed project in relation to the site to verify that it was not only feasible but also would actually mitigate the problem caused by the disaster.

On one such visit by the FEMA team, I was part of a “great performance.” I will call the two team members Bill and Ted because I am reporting their “excellent adventure.” We all traveled in their FEMA rented car to visit project locations throughout the state. Our first stop was in Yankton. We stopped at the motel in which we would spend the night and began to check-in. I went first, followed by Bill and then Ted. We were all chatting with the clerk and Ted most of all. When the clerk slid Ted’s credit card back to Ted, I was standing by Ted’s side and reached in and slid the card off the counter and gave it to Bill who was standing behind me. (Anyone who knows me well enough will not be surprised by my action.)

Ted never noticed and put his wallet away. While still standing at the desk, I suggested that we go to dinner next, and Bill, while putting Ted’s credit card in his wallet, said, “I’ll even buy dinner.” I choked back a laugh and the clerk started to smile and laugh quietly also. Bill did buy Ted’s dinner, but on Bill’s own card. I bought my own. The next morning we all left for our next destination with Ted still not knowing that Bill had his credit card.

Once again we arrived at a motel and Ted, Bill, and I went in and registered. Ted was first to register and for some reason he could not find his credit card. Bill and I suggested that perhaps he left it at the previous night’s motel and that he should call the motel and check. Ted used his cell phone to do just that but to no avail. I finally suggested that maybe he just overlooked it in his wallet. Ted had checked his wallet several times before I suggested it, but it still wasn’t there when he checked again.

Bill and I were just dripping with empathy, sincerity, and concern for Ted. It was a great performance up to that point. I suggested to Ted that perhaps the card had somehow fallen out of his wallet and was somewhere around the driver’s seat in the car. Ted, being desperate at this point, went out to check and left his wallet on the desk as he did so. Bill immediately put Ted’s credit card back in the wallet, at which point the desk clerk cracked up laughing. We even had time to explain how we had gotten it away from Ted the night before.

Ted returned from the car totally crestfallen and defeated. Bill suggested that he check his wallet one more time very carefully. Ted resisted but then looked and found his credit card almost immediately. Of course the clerk, Bill, and I were appropriately happy for him, again dripping with sincerity. Ted never did catch on. I was the last to register so the other two had gone ahead to move the car and to locate their rooms. The clerk gave me 10 extra coupons for a free small French fry at a hamburger chain because we had given her such wonderful entertainment. Yes, this was a great performance, but nothing like the one the next day.

We were on the way to a very small town in NE South Dakota when I decided that another great performance was needed. So, I told Bill and Ted that we were going to a small town in a part of South Dakota where people were not fond of federal officials and that a couple of them had “disappeared” in the past two years while in that region and suggested that they be very polite and agreeable. I told them that we were going to meet with the mayor of the town to visit and discuss the project. I also told them that we would meet the mayor at his butcher shop.

Upon arrival, the mayor was in the “workroom” in back of the shop so we waited in the lobby-display or sales area. Ted noticed a display of Summer Sausages and we all began to discuss how much we like summer sausage. I made a small comment that maybe the missing federal officials had been turned into summer sausage. Bill and Ted suddenly got very quiet and thoughtful.

The mayor finished his business in the workroom and we all went outside and walked around the town for a while viewing the proposed projects various locations. The mayor explained his vision on how the project would mitigate some flooding in his town. The tour ended up in front of his butcher shop where it began. About that time, a butcher’s assistant came out the front door and told the mayor that they were ready for him. The mayor asked us to wait as he had to go butcher a hog and he went inside. After a minute, Bill said he had never seen a hog butchered and wanted to watch. Putting words to action, he began to walk along the side of the building towards the rear of it. I called to him and said, “Stop. Haven’t you ever seen the movies where someone is told to wait but doesn’t and sees something he shouldn’t have seen and gets killed over it?” Bill stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at me. Before he could say anything in rebuttal, there was a gunshot from behind the building and Bill came back to where I was faster than when he left.

We then went in the shop’s front door and waited for the mayor to return, which he did momentarily. We all made a bit of small talk and prepared to leave for our next destination. The mayor said wait a minute I have something for you and went back into the workroom. I said, “Oh oh” and obviously but slowly moved away from Bill and Ted in the general direction of the front door. I could tell by their faces that they were not calm but not sure what to do. The mayor came back about then and handed each of us a tube of Summer Sausage. We thanked him and left.

Once in the car, I made a comment that since this appeared to be fresh sausage, we didn’t need to worry about eating those missing federal officials. I never did tell Bill and Ted that I made up the whole background story. It was a great performance even if I do say so myself.

© 20 April 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic. 

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Drinking by Phillip Hoyle

Socially speaking—like at most Friday night happy hours—

  • the first beer numbs my lips,
  • the second beer elevates my vocal volume and brings on laughter, 
  • the third beer helps me become very friendly.

Which leaves me wondering about my friend Little T who years ago was so freaked out when, in such a friendly moment, I slid my bar stool in behind his and affectionately put my hand on his shoulder. Within minutes he left the bar all upset. I followed him out to see if he was okay. He claimed to be okay but wouldn’t afterwards answer or return my phone calls. A mutual friend intervened and paved the way for Little T and me to begin talking again. She encouraged him not to turn down a friendship with me and warned me not to call him for a couple of weeks. When Little T and I later talked about the event he said he assumed I was sex addicted like so many other gay men he knew, whereas he was a love and romance guy. I had thought at the time I was playing a love and romance move so to speak. But in the ensuing months of our relationship by getting to know him much better I found out much more.

Little T was addicted to drugs, an assortment of marijuana, mushrooms, and probably more. He had long before given up using LSD, but a couple of years after that reconciliation between us he started using crystal meth with his boyfriend. By then Little T and I had developed a wonderful, supportive friendship sharing our loves of music, literature, and wide-ranging conversation.

Then he disappeared. Finally, several years later he told a friend to give me his phone number. I waited a number of weeks—or was it months?—and finally contacted him to discover he was living out of state. Eventually he moved back to Denver. Of course, I remained understanding in the light of his challenges. I loved the man, still do, appreciate our friendship, and look forward to it continuing many years. I accept his addictive personality. I applaud his quitting the drugs. I want the best for him.

Still when we are together I can get confused. Sometimes Little T encourages me to drink more, even a third beer. I wonder silently, “Don’t you recall the night I so freaked you out? Surely you don’t mean for that to happen again.” I tell myself either he has a bad memory or I am just not going to “go there.” I guess I just don’t know. I do recall another friend, Big T, saying to me, “Oh Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.” Now I pay attention but cannot for the life of me figure out what behaviors are meaningful enough to respond to. This drinking stuff always seems to leave me uncertain. Perhaps I should just stick to the Coca Cola I was weaned on although they don’t even make that kind anymore. © Denver, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Where Was I in the Sixties by Pat Gourley

May 2014. Pat Gourley

In hindsight the sixties were clearly the decade of my most dramatic and far reaching spiritual, political and social changes. I went from being the “best little boy in the world” in 1960, a devout virginal Catholic altar boy living on a bucolic rural Indiana farm to a card carrying member of the Democratic Socialist Party, a connoisseur of good LSD, a practicing homosexual (yes, I was still “practicing” at getting it right in 1969) and a budding Dead Head intent on avoiding a trip to Vietnam.

In retrospect I guess I was lucky my head didn’t explode. My hair went from a buzz cut with just a swipe of Brylcream to a shoulder length mass of reddish brown curls. My world in 1960 had great order, comfort and certainty that was only beginning to have cracks in it due no doubt to my budding sexuality, which seemed to be very much out of step with other boys my age. There was a God in heaven and all would be taken care of in the end. Well that worldview had certainly had gone out the window by 1969.

From 1960 to 1965 the event that sticks out most was that fall November day in 1963 and the Kennedy assassination. I clearly recall the day and the event. We were let out early from class that day. I was attending a Catholic High School in Michigan City, a nearly thirty mile one-way daily ride back and forth that my parents, at great economic sacrifice, felt was necessary I suppose to keep me out of the clutches of the Protestant heathens in the local public schools. The day of Kennedy’ s assassination resulted in having to spend a few lonely and frightening hours in the Michigan City Public Library before I could catch the bus home. It was not a school bus but a greyhound bus-type of Transit Company that went within a mile of my home. I would be left off where our country road met the highway and one of my parents, usually mom, would pick me up.

The Kennedy assassination was a particularly hard blow to my parents. I mean on some level I think they thought his death was a conspiracy since an Irish Catholic in the White House really was an insult to many who had a different version of social order and that could not be tolerated. We did have a T.V. and were of course glued to it for days, so much for the Pope coming over to take on the reins of the U.S. government.

The most significant event of the decade for me personally though was in March of 1965 when my family sold our small Indiana farm and moved to another farm northwest of Chicago just outside of a small town called Woodstock. It was this move that facilitated many of the most impacting events in my life. Many of which I have written about or at least alluded to for this Story Telling Group.

It was this transplantation that would result in my first sex with another man one Good Friday afternoon in 1967 in the biology lab of the Catholic High School I was attending, the beginning of an affair that would last into the early 1970’s. It was also while attending this high school that I encountered the truly radical Holy Cross nun who would forever change my political and worldview and to whom I am eternally indebted. A decade later I met Harry Hay who was always admonishing me to look carefully at my most dearly held “unexamined assumptions”, but it was this little nun who really got me doing that in very life changing ways starting in 1966. She was my muse for sure encouraging me to “not trust leaders or put my money into parking meters” to badly quote Bob Dylan.

The move to Illinois also meant that I would attend the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana and though this college was no Berkeley it was still much more progressive than many of the public Universities in Indiana. There I fell in with the Democratic Socialist Party leader Michael Harrington, the renowned author of Poverty in America, and became the dyed-in-the-wool socialist I remain today, only now with more of a small “s”.

It was in 1968 that I moved out of the dorm, discovered LSD and met a bunch of hippies with whom I lived collectively in a variety of settings for years to come including a relocation to Denver. They were the dastardly influence of course that introduced me to the music of the Grateful Dead.

And in addition to launching my sexual life as the big homo that I am the sixties probably much more importantly provided me with a strong foundation for becoming the out proud queer man dedicated to furthering the Homosexual Agenda that I became. I owe this strong foundation in no small part to my loving parents, a great civics teacher, and a philandering old socialist and not least of all my first lover a man 20 plus years my senior. The ensuing decades have really just been a building and expansion process on the values and beliefs seared into my soul from 1960-1970. Hopefully they will carry me to a peaceful and content death satisfied that in some small way I have impacted this very transient world of ours for the better.

© May, 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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The Recital by Betsy

It was 1944. In Europe bombs were falling; in London, but mostly in Berlin. The Allies were preparing to invade Normandy. I didn’t know any of this at the time. My parents didn’t think it would be good for a 7 year old to know about the horrors of war–not the details anyway. Everyone knew there was a war going on across the ocean. I knew about rationing, I even had my own book of savings stamps, there was never enough gas to go anywhere, but otherwise the war didn’t really effect my life. Life for me in 1944 was pretty normal.

I had recently started piano lessons. My grandmother, an accomplished musician, had hoped that the talent she had perhaps had skipped a generation and maybe all the music genes had descended into my being.

Life was normal until I got into my piano lessons. My teacher had escaped the war in Europe and, I suspect, had escaped the Holocaust. Of course, at the time we didn’t know there was a holocaust going on, and if we had known, adults certainly weren’t going to talk about it in the presence of children. The war in Europe had effected my teacher’s life all right. I suspect she still had loved ones suffering in concentration camps, or maybe they were already dead. Maybe for her making a living in a strange country in hard times was barely endurable. But I sensed my teacher’s insecurity and volatility. I did not want to make her life more difficult by being unable to perform.

“You must count!” screamed my teacher. “One and two and three and one and two and three and. I turn on the metronome, yes?”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” chanted the metronome. “We are running out of time. Recital coming, recital coming,” chanted teacher.

“Maybe my mother will tell me it’s okay just to play the right notes. Don’t worry about the counting at the same time,” I thought.

Am I ready for a recital? Mommy will know.

My mother assured me I was ready for the recital. After all. My velvet dress was back from the cleaners and we would soon go to the city to buy some Mary Janes and socks with lace cuffs. My hair was the perfect length for braiding. Everything was in perfect order for the recital, my mother assured me.

Everything but the music. I was to play three pieces: Marilyn Dances, A Soldier’s March, and In an English Country Garden. I actually had no idea whether or not I would be able to get through those pieces. I have to wonder if my teacher had any idea if I could get through them.

My mother was confident that everything would be perfect. After all, she was in charge of seeing that I was properly clothed and she herself would be doing the braids.

This particular occasion called for braids with rolls. The first step is to divide the hair in 1/6th’s perfectly symmetrical and each 6th–that is, each hank–being perfectly equal in volume. Mother would then roll the front hanks to form rolls of hair directly above the ears. The remainder of the hank is then braided into the other two hanks. “One and two and three and,” as she deftly wove the hair together into two smooth, perfect braids. I could only hope that in a few hours my hands would move as smoothly and deftly over the piano keys as hers moved as she worked my hair.

The day arrived. I was ready–braids with rolls in place, velvet dress with lace collar, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, socks with lace cuffs. I couldn’t have been more ready–except for being scared stiff. Would Marilyn dance, would the soldier march, would the garden flourish? Or would they all just die there on the stage in front of all those people.

Interesting that I remember such detail about my outward appearance. What I don’t remember is how I performed the music and how I felt after the recital. I guess to my mother–and therefore to me–that was an incidental of minor importance. And perhaps that explains why this was my first–and last recital.
© 8 Oct. 2011

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Favorite Literary Character by Will Stanton

When I decided to join the Story-Time group in submitting stories and essays to the blog, I needed to decide whether to use my own name as author or to create a pen-name. I considered the fact that, in some of my stories, I use the names of real persons and real places, which may not always be advisable in a blog. Also, some of my essays speak of especially unusual experiences. As a consequence, I decided to use a pen-name.

Fellow Story-Time member John was showing me how to join the blog, and I had to choose a name and avatar right on the spot. Rather than taking a long time to ponder those decisions, I quickly went with my instincts for both. What immediately came to mind was the name “Will Stanton,” the main character in one of my favorite books. There are a number of Will or William Stantons in the real world; it’s a fairly common name. One even was an author of humorous fiction. Yet, the character I thought of is totally fictional, unless the author knows something that I don’t know.

The author, Susan Cooper, is a graduate of Oxford University and a brilliant British scholar and writer who has a very deep knowledge of ancient British mythology, Arthurian legends, Celtic and Norse mythology and their connection with each other. She won the Newbery Award and the Welsh Tir na n-Og Award for excellence. In 2012, she won the lifetime Margaret Edwards Award from the American Library Association. In many ways, I consider her books superior to those of J.K. Rowlings, but unfortunately they preceded by a generation the Potter genre and its highly successful marketing and, consequently, were over-shadowed.

The first time I that I read “The Dark is Rising,” the second volume of her series by the same name, I felt an immediate connection with Will. I saw in myself many of the same character traits as Will. I also was very moved by the humanity of some of the central characters.

I do not know why I am the way I am, why I have such discernible aspects to my personality, feelings, and values. Like most of us, I have tried throughout my life to understand myself, to try to figure out what experiences might have influenced who I am. I gradually have grown to understand that much of who I am is in-born as well as learned.

I have an ingrained sense of right and wrong, and I feel terribly uncomfortable with the idea of anyone, including myself, being tempted to do wrong. Even if there appeared to be great profit or benefit in doing wrong, I feel that I just could not bring myself to engage in it. I also care very much about the good people of the world and feel pain and sorrow if they are harmed or suffer loss. I would like to be able to assist them, to prevent their hurt, wish to undo any hurt, or to heal them if I can not.

There are, however, far too many evil-doers in the world. I am terribly dismayed by the dark side of human nature, the lack of empathy, falsehood, physical and verbal violence, the readiness to harm others. Such negativity seems to affect me more than many other people.

So apparently, I seem to have had throughout my life a powerful connection to Good (with a capital G), often referred to as “The Light.” The concept of “The Dark” that embodies all that is negative and destructive repels me. The two factions of Light and Dark repeatedly struggle to determine the destiny of mankind. The Light fights for the Good, for freedom and free will, whereas the Dark fights for chaos, confusion, subversion, and control of humankind. I actually recall vivid dreams where I joined The Light to battle black, shadowy entities of The Dark. Somehow, I knew that I had the capacity to do battle with Evil. It felt natural to me.

 

The character “Will Stanton” discovers his true role in life upon his eleventh birthday. I suppose that this is pure coincidence; however, I always have had an unexplained, deep connection with the number eleven, my favorite number. When I was very young, I looked forward to becoming eleven, just like Will.

I never have regarded myself as particularly special, no more or less than any other human being. The literary character “Will,” however, does turn out to be special. He is the last of the so-called “Old Ones,” those of the Light whose mission is to prevent the rise of the Dark. When I read that passage for the first time, a deep emotion welled up inside me. Being one of the “Old Ones,” Will does possess some remarkable abilities that are supernormal that help him defeat the Dark.

As for myself, I never have been presumptuous enough to claim special abilities, although I have had upon past occasions, especially when I was young, some rather exceptional experiences that are hard to explain. Occasionally, I have spoken of them, but I realize that some listeners may dismiss them as unreal or at least exaggerated, perhaps because they have had no similar experiences or, perhaps their minds just don’t work that way. I’m not aware of any such notable experiences in my later years. Perhaps that is because I became so focused upon trying to deal with the demands of daily life that my my mind was hindered in functioning in a natural manner and without stress.

I hesitate to mention one other comparison; but, to be sincere, I do need to mention it. Will bears the sign of the Celtic cross on his forearm where hot metal of that shape touched his arm. In my case, a professional palm-reader brought out a very large book showing lines found in people’s palms, telling me that I have crosses in the palms of my hands, signs that are extremely rare, signs supposedly that indicate, as the books stated, “divine power.” I am too much of a “Doubting Thomas” to be particularly impressed. I dismissed her revelation as unscientific and of no practical significance, whereupon she showed me the pages with the lines and description stating that such signs are, in fact, very rare. Still, it would have taken much more than that to convince me to go bounding off trying to do marvelous things. For the sake of the argument, if I was somehow granted a few special abilities, I can’t say that I have found a way of putting them to good use, at least not in any recognizable way.

One major difference between Will and myself is our families. Will is a part of a large, happy, close-knit family that is wonderfully loving and supportive of each other. As you have learned from some of my previous stories, my family was not. So, I was very attracted to the homelife enjoyed by Will and felt that I would have loved to have been part of Will’s family, too. As far as the image that I selected for my avatar, I now realize that it coincidentally matches the appearance of Will. That had not occured to me when I chose it. It just turned out that way.

So, although I would not be so presumptious as to claim that I am like Will, one of the “Old Ones,” at least I can identify with part of that term. I feel rather old.

© 8 November 2013

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Self Labeling by Ricky

Interestingly enough this topic is so two sided in the sense of positive and negative labeling (three or four sided if you consider the options of secret labels or deceptive labels). Perhaps a better way to describe labeling would be: uplifting, destructive, or even empowering. I leave it to each of you individuals to discover or categorize labels into whatever groups you desire.

When I was serving as an officer in the military in the position of a Flight Security Officer in charge of 40 enlisted nuclear missile security guards, at one point I was assigned to lead a flight of personnel who were not pulling together to get the job done smoothly without interpersonal problems. I was not the typical air force officer so, I did not impose “severe punishment” for trouble makers right off the bat when I took over. Instead, I did the following to defuse the problems by emphasizing the similarities between everyone.

At my first “guard mount” I had the men repeatedly organize themselves into different groups as I called out the categories (i.e., one group over here, another stand over there, etc.). The categories (labels) were: Republicans here, Democrats there, others by me; blacks to the right, whites to the left, American Indians across from me, others next to me; Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right, Jewish across from me, others next to me (and so fourth through…); enlisted vs officers; NCO’s vs non-NCO enlisted; rural vs urban origins; Western vs Central vs Northern vs Confederate states; high school vs junior college vs college graduates; 4 year vs 6 year enlistees vs lifers; 18-20 vs 21-25 vs 26-30 vs 31+; married w/no children vs married w/children vs single vs widowed/divorced; action films vs chick flicks; and so on for about 15 minutes. At the end I reminded them that regardless of rank or position or psychological temperament, we all belong to different groups with different people we work with at one time or another; we all have something in common with others that perhaps we didn’t get along with prior to today. So, lighten up and see if you can’t become friends rather than enemies because we are all “stuck” together in the Air Force on this flight.

I am happy to report that as far as I could tell, all the interpersonal problems became non-issues and the flight became the best performing flight in the missile security squadron. Naturally, it was not all my doing, I happened to have an extremely well qualified Flight Security Sergeant as my second in command and most of the credit goes to him.

So moving on to a more personal level, I was quite naïve about many things dealing with sexuality growing up. I engaged in what has been labeled as “age appropriate” sex play/experimentation with both boys and girls as I hit puberty but the only label applied was “this is fun, but don’t let mom, dad, older brother, or anyone else know what we do.” There was one member of my Boy Scout troop who was my main sex play partner but we never did anything while on scout campouts or events. After he moved and I was in high school, my naivety continued to confuse me and I began to wonder why I was not attracted to any girls. Mentally, I was fantasizing about sex with boys (and rarely girls) but noticed that I was not attracted to any particular girls but I was to a few school mates. I just never thought of or realized the implication.

It wasn’t until I was in the Air Force as an officer that the possibility of being gay crept into my mind on a few occasions, but since I was married with kids, I put that thought out and eventually accepted that I might be bi-sexual. Ultimately, after my wife died and through the years of depression and self-evaluation I realized that I am (or at least have a large percentage of gay orientation). With the acceptance of this dual labeling, the stress in my life (and the confusion that went with it) disappeared and I feel much more relaxed and comfortable in my skin and around other men regardless of their orientation. In other words, I now know who/what I am.

So, some labeling can be damaging if it is “true” but denied and acceptance can be liberating but under many circumstances can still be damaging if one is not living in an environment where “truth” is tolerated. I’m pretty sure many of you have had experiences that demonstrate the accuracy of my last statement. Even if you have not, you must know of others who have had those negative experiences of revealing the “truth” to those who don’t tolerate or can’t accept it.

© 11 September 2011

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Camping (It Up) by Pat Gourley

I am opening here today with a short read from Larry Mitchell’s iconic The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, a few personal photos documenting just a few of my own campy experiences and a quote from someone else’s work.

“… Camp itself should almost be defined as a kind of madness, a rip in the fabric of reality that we need to reclaim in order to defeat the truly inauthentic, cynical, and deeply reactionary camp – or anti-camp – tendencies of the new world order.”
Bruce LaBruce from GLR, March-April 2014

A short definition of camp I found on Wikipedia: “Camp opposes satisfaction and seeks to challenge” seems a very appropriate definition of the gay male act of being “campy”. Camp can be a form of almost spiritual acting out sometimes in private but often as public street theatre that on the surface seems to be just silly. Not that there is anything wrong with being silly. Society could use much more silliness it seems to me.

Though being ‘campy’ is certainly not exclusively the purview of gay men we really have a corner on that market and have and continue to this day to take it to new and challenging heights. I would refer you to watch just a single episode of RuPaul’s Drag Show if you have any doubts that camp is still alive and well. I would also be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge certain Diva’s male and female, past and present who have also mastered the art of camp: Cher, Lady Gaga, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Paul Lynde and Liberace to name just a few.

For many of us gay men the art of camp starts early and often involves dress up. Much to the consternation of my parents I am sure I would on occasion grab a couple bath towels one for my shoulders, cape-like, another around my waist skirt-like and one over my head. I would then pretend to be a nun, Sister Mary-the-something-or-other, and my several siblings and cousins would be my pupils.

Really, where the hell did that behavior come from in a little farm boy in rural Indiana in the 1950’s except from somewhere deep in my budding queer soul? Trust me I was not mimicking any role models or recruiters I was aware of. My juvenile gender-fuck drag appears to have been pretty spontaneous, I had no ‘gay uncles’ to mimic in any fashion that I was aware of. Early TV with the possible exception of Uncle Milty provided only the straightest of heterosexual role models and they were often quite sanitized and asexual. Remember Ricky and Lucy had separate beds!

One of the most powerful components of ‘camp’ involves its often-loving play with gender roles. I really think we are getting in touch with our being ‘other’ and since we usually only have the male and female as culturally defined to draw from and neither really fits we tend to mix them up in an attempt to create something that speaks more directly to us, often with startling success. The often-cruel taunts of ‘tomboy’ or ‘sissy’ really don’t begin to address the reality or do the behaviors justice.

Gender-fuck drag is a classic form of camp, something that has been around a long time and continues to survive today despite the tremendous push towards ‘respectability’ in the LGBT community. This I think sometimes get confused and mixed up even within our community with the powerfully emerging Trans community and their emerging forms of identity. They are very profoundly separate issues. It behooves everyone to appreciate and to be sensitive to the difference in the worlds of transsexual and transvestite and drag queen and gender fuckers and what each very differently involves and implies. There is also a significant amount of cross-pollination between these entities and those realities a bit much to try and get into here. It can be quite the sticky wicket and I would simply refer you to Ellen’s comments at the Academy Awards show she made to Liza Minnelli as an example of the thin ice here one can find yourself venturing onto.

Again I think I can say that much of ‘campy” behavior involves a messing with gender roles as often defined as the appropriate ones by our society. It is one of the most powerful change creating weapons we have in our arsenal in implementing the ‘gay agenda’.

© March 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Boredom by Lewis

Boredom is a condition of the conscious mind with which imagination, creativity, and initiative seldom run afoul. I have never felt myself being bored in a situation over which I have even a smidgeon of intellectual or physical control. There are few things more tiresome than to hear someone complain to another that they are “bored,” as if it is up to someone else to entertain them.

Occasionally, I run into a situation that makes me wish I could get the heck out of. It could be a well-meaning individual who simply does not realize how hard it is for me to maintain any level of interest in what they are rambling on about. It’s not that they are boring me. The issue is that I do not know how to tell them how I feel at the moment. As with anyone who might say that they are “bored,” it is my problem, not theirs. I still have not found a polite way to say, “You’re making me sleepy.”

Fortunately, minds once plagued by lack of imagination now have the capability of overcoming that unfortunate situation with the advent of Twitter, texting, FaceBook, YouTube, and Google. Boredom may well be on its way to consignment to the endangered species list along with, sadly, face-to-face human interaction.

In a complementary way, I have a phobia about boring others. My motto is, “It’s a gamble to ramble.” Of course, now, with my failing memory, I cannot remember half of what I wanted to say in the first place. Thus, my sentences are tending to be interspersed with long pauses, which truly are very boring. Thus, I tend to be much more interesting when I write than when I speak. I won’t say any more than this, so as not to risk boring you.

© April 28, 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Going Shopping by Nicholas

I don’t like shopping. I’m a buyer, not a shopper. When I venture into the world of retail, it is for something specific that I need—socks, underwear, a new shirt or slacks, groceries or some such stuff. The basics of life. I don’t see shopping as entertainment; it’s more like a chore, an odious chore, at that. If I can’t help it, I will go to the store. Shopping is boring and other shoppers are a nuisance merely blocking me from achieving my goal.

Usually I do have a purpose, a mission. I make a shopping list. I know where I need to go and what I need to get. Far from meandering aimlessly and gazing at a bewildering array of products and stuff, shopping is one of the most directed activities I engage in. Whatever I don’t want is merely a distraction and I will not be distracted.

But then, there are those moments. Of course, it does happen, though very rarely, that my tight little system breaks down and I do go shopping. I mean just plain old aimless shopping. I resort to indulging in retail therapy. It can be fun to buy new things. Maybe once a year on a spring afternoon, I will head for the shops or even the mall and just browse around looking at all the incredible things I could have. I might even buy some gadget that strikes my whimsy or perhaps stumble across something that I really could use and have wanted something like it for ages. Some trinket, some teensy little fashion statement like a shirt of a new color. Just slap the racks. Sometimes it’s fun to wallow in the midst of all the over-consumption possibilities of this American culture. I go from boredom to over stimulation and back to boredom in minutes.

I have my weaknesses, however. I can at times go shopping, I mean, really just shopping, not aiming for anything in particular, just handling the merchandise. Bookstores, for example, are for me like candy stores. I can’t walk into a bookstore without buying something before I walk out. Browsing always leads me to some title that looks really interesting, something I must read and will read—someday. Maybe I’m hoping for immortality. As long as I keep adding to the unread books on my shelf, I won’t die and it’ll be a damn long time before I get to reading all of them.

This used to be true for music back in the day when there were record and CD stores. I could always find something. I miss those stores and I fear the day when the dwindling Tattered Cover will shut its doors. I don’t know what I will do then. Give up candy?

Well, then there’s my second weakness. If I won’t be able to put anything into my mind, I will, I hope, be able to put stuff in my mouth. I mean food and wine. The other afternoon, I spent a delightful time pouring over the wine racks at Marczyk’s to select wine from Argentina, France, California and Spain. Another favorite is the Savory Spice Shop where I love to walk into and just breathe in all the aromas. And Saturday mornings in the summer will always find me wandering through the farmers market gawking at all the good food to bring home and cook up and eat. I usually buy too much but not half of what I’d like to buy.

So, I do like to go shopping after all—but I rarely admit it.
© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Wisdom – A Recipe by Betsy

1/2 cup fresh information
1 lb. knowledge
3 quarts experience
1T time
1T sage
pinch of spice
Mull information until clear.  Add time and sage. In a large pot simmer the
3 quarts of experience for several minutes, then add the knowledge. When the
knowledge is well blended with the experience stir in the fresh, mulled,
clarified information.  Continue
simmering for a long, long, time, stirring slowly and constantly to keep the
mixture from curdling. 
Allow ingredients to blend for a
few years before serving.  Then, when the
time is right serve with a flair by
adding spice and color to your presentation.

© 22 June 2014 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.